


Quarter past midnight

by aerococonut



Category: Good Omens (TV)
Genre: Confessions, Drinking (minor), M/M, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-06
Updated: 2019-08-06
Packaged: 2020-08-10 06:30:00
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,819
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20130877
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aerococonut/pseuds/aerococonut
Summary: He thought that they were running through the motions, set adrift in this strange, new world where anything was possible. Faced with choice, with free will, they’d been hesitant to rock the boat. Heaven and Hell could still try again to execute them. What were they doing? Other than returning to their usual routine, one could almost pretend nothing had changed.-Late at night, Crowley lets down his barriers and shares secrets held close for a very long time.





	Quarter past midnight

**Author's Note:**

> The idea behind this fic came from [Quarter Past Midnight by Bastille](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=X1VzzNbfPaM), especially the lyrics, "It's a quarter past midnight / And the secrets are flowing /Our lips are getting looser / I don't know what I'm saying" and thus, this fic was born.

With a quiet sigh, Crowley slung himself into the Bentley. The soft leather seats adjusted to cushion his body; sinfully soft, as if the car had anticipated his needs and become what he wanted before he even had the thought. As always.

Aziraphale clambered in next to him, light hair ruffled and a pleasant flush across his cheeks. He didn’t ask where their destination was, trusting Crowley to decide. “Try not to hit any pedestrians,” he warned, though there was no sting in his words. Their same old song and dance.

He took off in a squeal of tyres, the parking lines rewriting themselves behind him. A sleek, black car disappearing into the darkness.

Crowley liked this time of night, when all the colours start to bleed to black. When the streetlights and neon shop signs blurred into streaks through the Bentley’s windows, like afterimages across his eyelids. The buildings, glimpsed briefly outside, were cold, windows forming ghostly faces where all the edges had faded. Pricks of interest, in the barely-there forms of the handful of humans still walking around. Maybe they’d been out for dinner and drinks, like himself and his angel, heading home to lose themselves in sleep.

Late, but not quite the true late of a tired city. Not yet.

Now was the time when humans grew sleepy, more foolish. They dropped all their barriers in the dark, gave up a few more pieces of their souls in an effort to be known.

Next to him, Aziraphale looked ahead, the faint neon glinting off his too-bright eyes and his light hair, his beige jacket picking up a golden tinge from the lamps outside. His expression was content, likely a result from the delicious food of their evening’s restaurant and paired with nice wine and conversation. To him, the late hour meant nothing; to a being who never slept, it was simply more time to read uninterrupted. 

“Need to stop anywhere?” Crowley asked, just to fill the silence. He was already taking them back to the bookshop, where the unspoken offer of drinks lingered. It had become a ritual, of sorts. Dinner. Drinks. The safe haven of the bookshop.

Aziraphale smiled to himself. “No. I was thinking perhaps you would join me for a drink this evening.” In a way, clinging to these rituals gave them a sense of normalcy, prevented them getting caught up in the myriad of futures they could pursue. Instead, they kept on as they were, if not closer. Aziraphale seemed to feel this too, extending his offers of companionship every other day, when Crowley couldn’t bring himself to ask once more.

So neither of them had to be alone.

“Don’t need to tempt me,” he said, implicitly accepting the offer. His flat no longer felt welcoming, since the demonic intrusion and execution of Ligur. His skin started crawling when he was left there for too long by himself, his thoughts running a thousand miles an hour and taunting him with  _ what could have beens _ . He ran a shaking hand through his dark red hair.

Himself, destroyed. Aziraphale, destroyed. That thought alone still sent a pang of loss through him, and usually had him fumbling through a phone call, mentally begging Aziraphale to stop him being alone. The fear, the utter  _ terror _ , he’d felt believing he’d lost the one being who understood him. Aziraphale’s presence, whole and corporate, was the only thing that soothed those fears. 

That loss had been the thing to break him. Damn the world and everyone in it if he couldn’t have Aziraphale.

Couldn’t be close, like now, caught in his radiant orbit like a star in the unforgiving night sky. Aziraphale was the Light; the embodiment of Heaven’s grace and awe on Earth, and he’d long ago given up on staying away.

He only left because Aziraphale needed time to himself, and he respected that. In the time since Armageddon though, that amount had been less and less. 

Crowley touched his foot to the acceleration, letting the car speed up so he could take the next turn unnecessarily fast. 

It was worth it when Aziraphale recoiled, his body moving closer to Crowley’s side of the car. “Watch the road!” he hissed, lifting his hand to wrap around the safety handle above the door in a white-knuckled grip. “You’re going too fast!”

It was the same adage, repeated over numerous occasions.

_ You go too fast for me, Crowley. _

Reluctantly, Crowley took his foot off the pedal enough to slow the car. Just slightly; he wouldn’t give up the pleasure completely. He couldn’t help going  _ fast _ . He was a demon. He couldn’t help  _ wanting _ . Wanting to move on, to see new things, to do new things. 

Wanted Aziraphale.

Wanted the angel’s companionship, his kindness and understanding. Wanted to be near him, wanted to be  _ close. _

He blessed himself in the depths of his mind and the needle on the speedometer crept up once more. Maybe if he went fast enough, he could outrun his thoughts altogether. 

Aziraphale sighed at the speed, but he didn’t comment on it. Maybe he recognised Crowley’s need, or maybe he’d given up arguing. He picked up an old thread of their conversation instead and filled the quiet air with chatter. Nothing painful or difficult; something about a book he’d been reading. 

There was something about the normality in it that calmed Crowley’s racing mind and unquiet heart. He flashed the angel a grateful smile, lightning quick and hidden almost immediately, but he knew Aziraphale saw it.

He knew a lot of things. Millennia of watching Aziraphale, of learning his moods, expressions, mannerisms, had given him an innate knowledge of the angel next to him, unmatched by anyone else in his existence. His counterpart, his Adversary, his best friend and more.

His partner on this endless waltz through time.

Maybe in the silence of his own mind, he could admit some truths. But not tonight, not in the almost-late hour of Soho, in the Bentley. Later, maybe. They had time after all.

Crowley wished, not for the first time, that he could use his words like Aziraphale did. 

The angel always seemed to know what to say, and when to say it. Words were a part of him, caused his eyes to light up and his boundless love to come spilling out.

Oh, how Crowley envied him that love.

Demons don’t feel love. He’d told himself that over and over again. When he’d been staring with something reverent, something radiant blooming in his chest, and a realisation that  _ hey, being around the angel isn’t so bad after all _ . He couldn’t remember when he’d first noticed, only that it was there.

If he was being honest, it was probably the best thing about being on Earth. 

Except demons aren’t honest, and he wasn’t done lying to himself yet.

“It’s late, angel. Hardly anyone’s out on the roads this time of night, and if they are, then they should be paying attention.” Crowley wasn’t in the mood to start an argument now. That was counterproductive to what he wanted. Then again, sometimes it was worth it just to hear Aziraphale’s rationalisations of the strangest things. “Besides, I’m keeping an eye on the road. Wouldn’t want to hit a pedestrian, after all.”

“Again,” the angel muttered dryly. His voice went quiet, reflective. “It’s good to see you took my words to heart.” 

How could Aziraphale infuse so much meaning into one sentence? Crowley resisted the urge to sigh, again wishing he had Aziraphale’s way with words. “Demons don’t have hearts,” he scoffed instead, ignoring the bolt of  _ something _ that went through his chest. “See? Watch.” And he drove straight through a red light, narrowly avoiding the car coming into the intersection.

“Crowley!” Aziraphale braced his hands against the front panel. “You almost hit them!” His face was pale against the dark interior of the car. “What possessed you to take such a risk?” The words had lost their bite, however. Aziraphale knew what drove him on and accepted it. “I would appreciate it if you stopped trying to cause accidents.” 

Crowley huffed a laugh with no mirth. “Don’t worry, angel. Nobody’s getting hurt tonight.” Except maybe himself, when Aziraphale eventually kicked him out, and he had to go home, back to a cold empty flat and pretend he was fine with it. 

That was when his chest ached the most, and his mind whirled in endless circles. Things he’d done wrong, things he wanted but didn’t deserve. Things he could never have. Things that haunted him no matter how much time passed.

Aziraphale reached out a hand, resting it against the window. “I know,” he said thoughtfully, turning to glance at Crowley. “I trust you.”

The Bentley purrs, the drive smooth, the leather moulding around them like a caress. The car always liked having Aziraphale in the passenger seat; taking turns just a little easier, a little less bumping in the suspension. Or at least when Crowley wasn’t deliberately yanking on the wheel.

It was hilariously stupid to be jealous of his car, but there he was, wishing he could be on the receiving end of Aziraphale’s gentle touch.

Right. Enough of that. He pushed the accelerator down and ignored the needle creeping up over 110. This fast, it almost felt like flying. 

“What are you in the mood for tonight?”  And then there was Aziraphale, who somehow managed to ground him when he needed it most.  “What about a nice red? I have a few bottles left of the—”

“S’fine.” Crowley shut the conversation down. It wasn’t that he wanted it to stop. He just needed a moment to hide, the same way his dark shades hid his eyes. A barrier. He glanced over at Aziraphale and cleared his throat. “Whatever you choose is good.” Better he enjoy the time they spent together, rather than preparing for when he’d be alone.

Really, anything was bonus time, after deceiving their respective offices.

Hell, for a brief time, he’d  _ been _ Aziraphale, close in a way he’d never be again. Like that, anyway. Living in a body that radiated love and acceptance, and he’d almost lost himself completely.

In a way, he was almost grateful Heaven’s kidnapping had come so soon. Any longer and he might not have wanted to swap back. 

He shook his head, grimacing to himself. 

Aziraphale caught the motion, turning to watch Crowley’s face with concerned eyes. “Is everything alright, my dear?” His voice was low, softened by the late hour and the over-quiet of the night. Only the rumble of the Bentley filled the air. 

Crowley briefly considered spilling his thoughts, giving his anxiety over to Aziraphale in the hopes of making sense of it all, or perhaps an invitation to stay the night so at least he wouldn’t stress by himself. But that idea was quickly shoved aside in favour of being his usual cool, collected self. “I’m just tired,” he sighed at himself, lifting a shoulder. 

A month after their ‘executions’ and he could still recall the exact sensations of being Aziraphale. “Do you...do you feel any different? Being yourself again?”

Aziraphale was still watching Crowley with bright eyes. “Hmm…” He thought about it for a moment, then continued, “It was interesting pretending to be you, I admit. That sense of confidence in your stride, the way your draw attention just by being.” With a laugh, he waved a hand. “However, I lack your ability in regards to sinning, so I really do feel it was for the best to swap back.”

“That’s not what I meant,” Crowley huffed, unable to stop the small quirk of his lips. “Besides. I think if you wanted to sin you’d be fine. You’ve already got gluttony sorted.” He ignored the way being called  _ confident _ struck a chord through his body.

“I have no such thing,” Aziraphale said primly. “I simply appreciate the human’s ingenuity in regards to food and literature.” He curled his fingers into his neck, brushing the wispy blond curls there. “And their love. They infuse such love into their creativity.”

Crowley tightened his grip on the steering wheel, forcing his face not to twitch. “Yeah, yeah, you and your love.” This conversation was once more threatening to delve into forbidden areas. 

Love was the most dangerous topic of all. Dancing too close to this topic meant risking vulnerability. Demons didn’t feel love.

So why the Hell did he?

Love, that impossible, sublime feeling that caused him to traverse the world all for one being. He'd faced the Apocalypse  _ only _ because there was a chance the angel would survive. He wasn't just a demon; he was half of a whole.

Aziraphale smiled then, one of his smallest, most gentle smiles, his bright eyes crinkling at the corners. The hands in his lap lost a little of their tension.

Crowley resolutely turned his wandering gaze back to the road. 

It was a relief to pull up to the bookshop at last. The worn  façade stood as it had before the fire; old letters faded from time, the windows dark and grimy to prevent customers peeking in (and possibly buying a book). 

Entering the bookshop always gave him a peculiar feeling of coming home, in a way his own flat never did. Despite the fact Aziraphale didn’t sleep here, it was his place, and his angelic aura infused every inch of the area with his  _ fondness _ . It was like a blanket of reassurance, tartan coloured and smelling of musty old books but  _ loved _ . 

The shelves filled all but the middle of the shop, Aziraphale’s collection spilling over the sides and wherever they would fit. His writing desk stood on the eastern side, wooden top covered in his paraphernalia; an opened book or three, pen and old inkwell, assorted knicknacks, and a bookmark or two. There was probably more buried underneath the stuff on top, but Crowley would never check for fear of being smited.

Stepping onto the circular carpet that covered Aziraphale’s contact with Heaven, Crowley glanced up to the second storey. From here, he could make out the stairs that led up to the living space. While acting as the angel, he’d explored the upstairs area to find a cluttered, but homey, living area. No bed, since Aziraphale never wasted his reading time sleeping, though the couch upstairs was wonderful, if he was honest. The small kitchen was quaint, the old wallpaper definitely needed an upgrade to this century, and he wondered why Aziraphale spent so much time downstairs when he had a place to himself like that.

Aziraphale followed him inside, carefully removing his jacket and placing it on the rack. He straightened the sleeves of his light blue dress shirt and tweaked his bow tie until it sat neatly once more. Here in the bookshop, Aziraphale would let down some of his barriers.

Letting Aziraphale take the lead to the back room, Crowley sauntered through the doorway, running his hands along the wall as he did so. He fell backwards onto the sofa, his legs spread and one elbow resting on the armrest. He watched Aziraphale open the doors to his liquor cabinet and hold up two bottles of something red. 

“What do you think, my dear?” Aziraphale raised an eyebrow and waited for an answer.

He  _ thought _ that they were running through the motions, set adrift in this strange, new world where anything was possible. Faced with choice, with  _ free will _ , they’d been hesitant to rock the boat. Heaven and Hell could still try again to execute them. What were they doing? Other than returning to their usual routine, one could almost pretend nothing had changed.

“Either’s fine. Let’s get drunk.” He motioned to the bottles Aziraphale was holding. It was too late at night for his existential crises, but evil never slept. His brand of evil did, however. Maybe if he drank enough he’d just curl up and sleep the night through before he was evicted.

Aziraphale presented Crowley with a glass of wine.

Taking the glass, Crowley let himself brush Aziraphale’s hand with his fingertips. Ever so faint, nothing obvious. Enough that he felt the brief contact, a quiet thrill running through his veins at the contact. Well and truly fucked, he was.

Something inscrutable passed across Aziraphale’s features. He sat down opposite Crowley, relaxing into the beige pillows. 

Crowley held up his glass in salute, swirling it around. The entire concept is pretentious, but he was committed. At last, he took a sip and began the road to Well And Truly Drunk. 

Three bottles in, he’d started feeling the hazy, lulling warmth under his skin alcohol brought, sitting somewhere in his stomach and lulling his thoughts into a semi-calm state. “Sssso…” He stopped, staring at the section of Aziraphale’s wrist bared by his sleeve and forgetting what he was going to say. “I drew...snake,” he said instead, pointing to his own wrist. “When I...when I was you.”

“Oh?” Aziraphale hiccuped, passing a hand across his face. “...Why?”

Crowley frowned, trying to remember. “Not sure. Soli...solid...us, y’know? A mark of...me. And you. Both of us.”

Humming, Aziraphale stared at his glass. “That’s nice.” He held up the glass. “I tried to walk. Like...you. Snakily.” Nodding to himself, he fixed half-lidded eyes on Crowley. “Didn’t tell you. Secret. I watch you, a lot.”

He scoffed at that. “You watch me a lot? Nah, angel. I want...watch you  _ far _ more.” Crowley ignored the little voice warning him this was dangerous territory. Buried under three — or was it four, now? — bottles of alcohol, it was easy to ignore. “All the time!” He continued, grinning. “You’re...shiny.” Waving his hands at the angel, he tried to encompass his thoughts.

“Shiny?” Aziraphale echoed, frowning into his glass. “‘M an angel. It’s the ray…” he trailed off, looking thoughtful. “Radiance!” he announced, after a moment.

It was funny to watch Aziraphale lose his words the longer they drank. All those clever phrases slowly whittled down until they were the same level of eloquence.

Crowley laughed once to himself. “You’re shiny,” he repeated, leaning forward. The closer he got, the more he could see the flecks of gold in Aziraphale’s eyes, the tiny lines around his face, the faint flush of his cheeks from the alcohol. The way the light surrounded him and faded his edges like watercolour paints. “Beautiful,” he sighed.

“Crowley?” Aziraphale placed his glass on the table and leant forward to see his face. “Are you alright?”

Was he? Crowley slumped forward, just because it put him closer to Aziraphale’s face. His eyes slid off to the side, to glance at the wall clock. Quarter past midnight. Well, it was late at least. The midnight hour was a time for secrets, for assignations and clandestine meetings. It was a time of power, where things that might not normally be true could come true. Midnight was a time for magic. “Hey angel…” He hummed, lowering his voice to a whisper. “‘M fine. With you, it’s fine.”

Aziraphale frowned, touching his fingertips to the back of Crowley’s hand.

The casual touch threatened to undo Crowley entirely. They weren’t often physical with each other, and so every brush of Aziraphale’s fingers sent tingles through his flesh. “I like that,” he breathed, lips pulling up of their own accord. A moment of  _ connection _ , like when they’d swapped bodies, something tangible in the mix of emotions and gravity that had pulled him in long ago.

He was damned already, may as well go all the way.

Picking up the hand on his, he brought it up to press a kiss to the bared wrist — the same place he’d drawn the snake on Aziraphale’s skin. “Mine,” he mumbled. Maybe he’d meant to say ‘my mark’ or ‘I put it here’. Instead it came out possessive;  _ his angel _ .

This close, he could feel the angelic radiance Aziraphale always threw off, bleeding from his skin. He could pretend to feel Heaven’s grace again, flowing underneath his skin, muted by Aziraphale’s physical form and thus making it better. He left his face pressed against Aziraphale’s wrist, mildly surprised the angel hadn’t pulled away yet.

Maybe they were both too drunk for this conversation.

And then Aziraphale spoke, his voice hesitant. “Crowley...I’m sorry.”

Oh no. Oh  _ Hell _ , now he’d done it, he’d crossed the line—

“For all the things I said that I didn’t mean.” Aziraphale’s eyes were blinding, reflecting the orange glow of the bookshop’s lights. “The bandstand; here, in the bookshop. Whenever we were out and you were trying to help me see the truth.” There’s no stammer in his voice, no confusion any more. 

He must have sobered up, the bastard. Crowley inhaled, letting his racing heart calm a little. Maybe he wasn’t being told to get out and never come back after all. He debated leaving the warm haze of drunkenness in his veins, and then decided it would give the angel an unfair advantage. He was already close to spilling secrets he should be keeping to himself. “Gimme a sec,” he grumbled, forcing the alcohol from his system. Now that he could think again, he was already regretting the decision. “Now. Why are you apologising?”

Aziraphale shook his head. “How I said we were enemies. Every time, I could see you were telling the truth, but I convinced myself it wasn’t. Perhaps if I’d told you where the Antichrist was immediately, we wouldn’t have gotten into such a mess.” He kept his eyes on his hands, brow furrowed. “I lied. And I hurt you.” He drew his bottom lip between his teeth; not quite biting but on the verge. “I wanted to say how sorry I am, my dear.”

He stared, and then started so hard he almost fell off the sofa. “Angel, angel no, don’t worry about any of that. Seriously, I didn’t— I know what you were thinking. It’s fine.” Crowley leaned forward, his face tilted forward to try catch Aziraphale’s gaze. 

“You asked me to go with you to Alpha Centauri,” Aziraphale continued, his voice shaking slightly.

This conversation had taken a turn, and Crowley wasn’t sure how to handle it. Reassuring Aziraphale was the only thing he could think to do. “I threw out that offer because I didn’t want to lose you.” He chuckled ruefully. “It was a stupid line. I knew you wouldn’t say yes. You wouldn’t be you if you had.” Leaning forward, he crossed the line and covered Aziraphale’s hands with his own. Anything to wipe that sad expression off the angel’s face. “When the end of the world came, the only thing I wanted —needed— to save was you.”

Finally, a tiny smirk came to Aziraphale’s lips. “Is that why I found you drunk in a bar?” He closed his eyes and shook his head. 

Crowley fought down a shudder, images of the bookshop aflame filling his mind, the way his voice had broken when he called for Aziraphale and received no response. Knowing in his useless heart that the angel was gone. “Yeah. Guess I wasn’t thinking. Didn’t see the point in trying, really.”

Aziraphale slipped their fingers together, filling the spaces between Crowley’s long fingers like he was always meant to. “You made me confront things I didn’t want to. The discrepancy between what I thought was right and what I should be doing. Sometimes I resented that,” he admitted, shifting his weight. “In the end though...your faith was always stronger than mine. You would have been alright no matter what.” He said it easily, like the words were simply fact.

Crowley looked down at their joined hands, something hot prickling behind his eyes. Demons didn’t cry. Snakes didn’t cry. There was no way he was going to, he reminded himself fiercely. “You say that, but it’s not true. I was lost.”  _ Without you _ went unspoken, the words hovering in the quiet of the hour. Midnight’s secrets revealed.

Squeezing the hands he held, Aziraphale rubbed his thumbs across Crowley’s bare skin. “Crowley,” he said, and then stopped. For a moment, he just watched Crowley, his bright eyes reflecting the golden lighting from above. And then he leaned forward over the table, his hands entangled with Crowley’s, closing the distance between them until there wasn’t any.

Crowley tilted his head, parting his lips in a sigh. He could taste Heaven on Aziraphale’s lips and  _ oh,  _ maybe this was what he’d wanted all along. This touch, this  _ closeness _ . Every touch of their mouths, every shared breath, felt like someone had turned his blood to Hell’s lava, set fireworks off in his nerve endings, and it felt good. So,  _ so _ good. Absolutely not something a demon should feel, ever. 

He freed his hands from Aziraphale’s so he could reach up and cup the angel’s cheeks, his thumbs stroking across Aziraphale’s cheekbones. That was nice; the moisturised skin under his fingers was hot, a delicate blush spreading there. Not as hot as his mouth, which Crowley took great pleasure in exploring, the taste of wine still lingering on his tongue. His ears caught on their hushed breaths, quiet gasps. Their lips slid over each other, slotting together like a piece of a puzzle clicking into place. Natural, right.  _ Easy _ .

Pulling back, Aziraphale sighed gently and opened his eyes to smile at Crowley. “My dear,” he breathed, one hand stroking Crowley’s face. “Finally.” 

It was enough; that one word encompassing a relationship spanning six thousand years, only to bring them here, in this moment. 

“Yeah,” Crowley agreed. For once, he didn’t need it spelled out. 

This kiss was impossibly soft, a barely there brushing like a butterfly’s wings. It may as well have set off the tornado in Crowley’s stomach. He took his time, peppering tiny kisses across Aziraphale’s mouth, his cheeks, his nose, his eyelids, his temples. “I could do this forever.” His voice was tight, choked behind a wall of emotion in his throat. 

“I wouldn’t mind keeping you around.” Aziraphale smirked, tangling his hands in Crowley’s hair and brushing through it. 

“Despite me being a demon?” He tried to keep his words light, but the question burned inside him.  _ Do you still want me, knowing I’m Fallen?  _

Aziraphale clicked his tongue, the corners of his eyes crinkling. “I think we’ve established that, don’t you? Besides, I thought we were on our own side. What does it matter if we are an angel and a demon?” He leant over to press a kiss to Crowley’s forehead. “Really, dear, you don’t need to protect me.”

Crowley muttered something that might have been a rebuttal. It failed when his face started burning. He  _ had _ been worrying about Aziraphale and falling. One of them had to be, and Aziraphale didn’t seem to care! Bloody, reassuring angels and their blasted Heavenly warmth. 

And yet, he wanted to be closer.

Some time passed before Crowley finally leaned back, lips tingling and his body warm and hazy in a way that was like being tipsy but ten times better. He should have been concerned, should have argued some more, or worried about ethereal or occult retribution. Instead, he leaned into Aziraphale’s neck, feeling more content than he could ever recall. They’d moved to a more comfortable location, pressed together on the sofa. 

Aziraphale had a similar expression on his face, all bright eyes and plump lips, his light hair mussed around his face like a fluffy halo. He glanced up to the clock on the wall, now into the truly late hours. “It’s getting rather late, my dear.”

Crowley inhaled sharply, his heart giving a treacherous thump behind his ribs. After all this, he was being kicked out? His blood rushed in his ears. Aziraphale couldn’t be  _ that _ cruel, could he? “Angel—”

Aziraphale caught his chin, tilting Crowley’s head so he could kiss him sweetly. “Since it’s so late, I think it best you stay here tonight.” He chuckled, pulling back to watch Crowley’s face. “I wouldn’t want you crashing that car of yours because you fell asleep.”

Relief filled his veins, undoing the knots twisting in his stomach. “Right. Good idea.” He shifted forward, resting his head against Aziraphale’s neck and wrapping his arms around the angel. “I don’t like leaving,” he admitted quietly, voice muffled.

“Then don’t,” Aziraphale murmured, his hand once more tangling in Crowley’s hair. 

“Should make it a rule.” Crowley kissed the line of Aziraphale’s jaw, smiling as he did. “Any time after midnight, I’ll just stay here.”

Aziraphale hummed, stroking his hands through Crowley’s hair. “It’s a deal. Should we shake on it?”

Every moment of their long history, every broken word and shattered emotion, all the pieces had gathered here to make them who they were. With a laugh, Crowley drew back so he could look Aziraphale in his beautiful eyes. “I’d rather kiss you some more.” 

And so he did.

**Author's Note:**

> My first fic, [Like sunlight](https://archiveofourown.org/works/19825183) received SO MANY lovely comments (and kudos!) that it inspired me to finish this one. Thank you all so much for taking the time to read my fics and leave your feedback. This one is dedicated to all of you wonderful people. <3


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